A Hurricane and a Very Sick America
by Dr.WhoisCanada
Summary: America falls violently ill due to Hurricane Sandy. It's a good thing Iggy is there to help! Warning! Pre-established USUK! Referenced yaoi but nothing too serious. Rating for Iggy's potty mouth. Finished multichap fic.
1. Chapter 1

It's been four days since Alfred and I came to his home in the New York countryside. It's a small house, quaint and comfortable. I didn't mind the house or the location. Except _right now._ Hurricane Sandy is scheduled to hit the Eastern coastline any day now, and instead of staying in one of Alfred's _ten_ other houses we had to stay here, in New York, right in the thick of it.

I can't say I don't understand. After all, he just wants to be near his people. I'm worried god damn it. What with a shitty job market and growing debt (16 fucking trillion) his immune system is not exactly what you would call _up to par_.

If the constant coughing and migraines aren't enough its election season too. And what better to provide a mind-splitting headache than all of the most important dignitaries of you country having god damn stupid fucking screaming matches *cough* I mean debates *cough* on every news channel.

Not to mention his sleep schedule. Which he doesn't have. The boy literally gets no sleep trying to solve this countries problem and that countries crisis and _oh England it's not their fault they had an earthquake I absolutely need to give them some money I don't have and they won't be grateful for. _What a load of shit. He's such a sap, oh and if you ask him to get some sleep- nicely I might add which is hard for me- he will respond with some preposterous declaration of being a "hero" who people depend on.

Why did I have to marry somebody so idiotically sincere? Anyway, I digress. He seems fine right now, the earthquake hasn't struck and his only complaint is being cold, but he's always cold. So far so good. Maybe the entire storm will just give up and go home, perhaps decide that it really isn't worth it to fuck up the most densely populated region in America. I shoot the darkening night sky one last warning glare before climbing the stairs to join Alfred in the bedroom.

"What were you doing down there Iggy?" Alfred says with a raised eyebrow from the bed.

"Arthur" I correct as I crawl beneath the covers with him.

My only response is a hum as we curl close. I relish in how I managed to get Alfred to go to bed at a reasonable time with nothing more than a kiss and an only slightly emasculating plea before I notice his shivering. And he hasn't even complained yet. Weird. I remove my head from his trembling hest and look up. He raises an eyebrow at my usual glare.

"It's not that cold."

"Yes it is! It's freezing!" He whines squeezing my slender frame closer to his for emphasis.

I roll my eyes as I try to wiggle from his arms before being crushed; "It is bloody not! Now let go before you break me!"

He pouts and loosens his grasp. I wiggle so that my face is level with his and feel his forehead. I'm no doctor, but if he's going to get sick because of this cursed hurricane a fever would be a sensible place to start. I frown and pull my hand back, he does seem to have a fever. He just rolls his eyes.

"I'm not sick Artie, it's always cold in New York in October."

"Arthur. And yes that may be true but there aren't always hurricanes in New York in October."

He pulls his face into my chest and mumbles something along the line of 'yea that would suck'. I sigh and stroke his hair, deciding that if the hot head against my chest got any more so I would have to shove some medicine down his throat, but for now sleep was the best thing for him.

I awake to the sound of awful retching creeping into the sanctity of the bedroom. I leap out from under the covers and run into the bathroom just down the hall, hesitating at the slightly ajar door with light seeping out when the retching pauses.

"Alfred?" I ask timidly, met with only a chocking cough before he begins to vomit again.

I push open the door and kneel next to the superpower as he heaves violently into the toilet. A sputter, a sob, and more vomit. I rub circles into his back and whisper what I hope are soothing words until he stops puking and practically falls into my lab, curling up with his head tucked under my chin.

I wipe his mouth and flush the toilet, still rubbing his back as he pants into my chest. His forehead has definitely gotten hotter.

"Alfred are you alright?" nothing. "Al?" he shakes his head and wraps his arms around my waist, holding me in a trembling embrace. I kiss the top of his head and continue to rub small circles on his back with my other hand rubbing up and down his side in a comforting gesture he has often used on me the many times that I get sick. When his breathing slows and his grip weakens I slip my slender fingers under his chin and tilt his head up so that I can look into his eyes. Alfred may lie compulsively about his well being, but I always know what he's feeling if I can look him in the eye. He feels like shit.

I gently unwrap his arms from my frame and sit him up, holding his steady as he wavers and holds his probably aching head.

"Let's get you into bed, okay love?" He nods wile I pull him onto his feet. I wish I could carry him like he carries me but I am not exactly known for my brute strength, and with a population of 300 million fit body and envious abs aside Alfred is not a light man. Just don't tell him that.

He puts and arm around my shoulders and leans his weight against me. I wrap my arm around his waist and we steadily make our way to the bedroom. He clutches his stomach with his free hand the entire way, the constant panting heard from his hanging head causing my gut to clench in worry.

After gently laying him down I feel his forehead. It's not as bad as I thought, but definitely hotter than before.

"m' cold" He whimpers, eyes closed tightly as he holds his stomach trying to endure the acrobatic flip-flops.

I shush him and pull the covers up to his chin. "You're always cold Al."

"Sorry" he whispers, almost too quietly to hear as he slowly opens his eyes. I can see him begin to relax as his stomach settles

I gently brush his hair out of his face; "Well it's not your fault."

After crawling in on his opposite side I pull the sick nations head onto my lap, gently running my fingers through his golden locks. I glance out at the light still spilling into the hall while he turns on his side, too exhausted to react much. I should really get him some water so he doesn't get dehydrated, but I don't think that he wants me to leave. _you don't want to leave either_ I think as I look at his strained features, his eyes squeezed tightly closed as if that will help him sleep. I continue to stroke his hair and even start to hum softly, but honestly I don't know what to do.

I'm the one who always gets sick. I have a weak immune system, not that I would ever admit that out loud, and all it takes is too much stress, or a sleepless night, or few stocks to crash. Alfred, on the other hand, was hardly fazed. As I mentioned before, he often (too often) goes weeks without sleep, only to bounce back after a solid 24 hours. Even when he was little America rarely got sick, or so I heard, I wasn't really there much.

He always seems to know what to do to take care of me, singing God Save the Queen or reading me stories. It's become a ritual that whenever I am bedridden Alfred will carry me downstairs, lest the room suffocate me after being trapped in it for so long, and we will watch a marathon of Harry Potter or Dr. Who or whatever else I ask for. Not that I get sick _that_ often.

I look down and see the peaceful, innocent expression of sleep on my husband's face. After putting a pillow from my side of the bed between my head and the backboard I drift off to sleep myself.


	2. Chapter 2

"Alfred. Wake up love."

I sighed and continued to shake Alfred's shoulder gently. I stretched my sore back, regretting falling asleep sitting up.

"Come on Al."

Trying to wake Alfred up is even harder than trying to get Prince Harry to stop partying. Finally he began to stir, mumbling something about aliens. I sighed and pushed his hair out of his face. Bright blue eyes began to blink open, complimented by that dazzling smile.

"Hey Iggs."

"Arthur"

He ginned slyly and sat up. I smiled despite myself and handed him a glass of water.

"You need to drink something before you get dehydrated."

He swallowed the water quickly, thankful for something to wash away the taste of last night I'm sure. As I turn to set the now empty cup on the nightstand he pulls me into a hug from behind, setting me on top of his outstretched legs and burying his face in my neck.

"Thanks for takin' care of me babe."

"It is _taking_ not _takin'. _And you're welcome you git."

I feel him grin against my shoulder and just sit there for a minute enjoying the bliss and laying my cheek on Alfred's head before I remembered why I actually woke him up. I grabbed the thermometer off of the nightstand and pried myself away from his chest.

"I checked the news this morning but the storm still hasn't hit."

"Yeah I think it was just everybody's anxiety." He said while obediently opening his mouth.

I enjoyed a brief moment of silence waiting for the tell tale beep, realizing I feel a bit like vomiting myself from the anticipation. I sigh as I pull the stick from Alfred's mouth; no fever yet.

"Well it looks like you're good for another day."

He grinned and jumped up, nearly knocking me off of the bed, with an exclamation of 'sweet'. I rolled my eyes when he grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs. Honestly that boy and his insistent need for constant contact.

Alfred was fine for the rest of the day, maybe a bit tired, but fine. He ate ravenously- not that he doesn't normally, but this time he had a reason-, we watched Doctor Who, and we both got a few hours of work in while he distractingly played footsie with me beneath the desk. (And I did not take part. even though I definitely won.) It wasn't until later in the afternoon that he started coughing. It wasn't much, and not entirely unexpected, but I did glare at him every time the discord escaped his throat.

"What?" He whined after a particularly distracting fit.

I merely set my pencil down and guiltily softened my gaze.

"I'm just worried about you love."

"Don't be! Heroes never let a little whether get them down!"

I rolled my eyes at his signature thumbs up and hopped he was right. Shuffling my papers into my bag I suggested he do the same, and we both headed to the kitchen. I was just taking a sip of my freshly made tea when Alfred began coughing behind me. I set the cup on the counter and, when I noticed his white-knuckled hand clutching the marble, looked at him in concern.

After half a minute of hacking I noticed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. I grabbed his shoulders firmly and found it alarmingly easy to push him down into a chair at the table. He stopped coughing immediately and spent a moment gripping his chest and breathing deeply.

"Are you alright?" I asked, bending down to hopefully see his eyes and tell if he was lying.

"Yeah of course" he lied.

I shook my head and got him a glass of water, returning to find him slightly more composed, complete with a beaming smile.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" he asked after gulping the water down.

"Acting fine when you're not"

"But Iggs I really am fine." I glared daggers. "-ish"

I sighed at his sheepish look before he erupted into an even more violent coughing fit. If you have never seen it let me tell you now; there is nothing elegant about the coughing of a sick man. It makes you wince and clutch your own diaphragm in sympathy, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will help block the sound of wheezy breaths followed by practical retching in an endless cycle. The fact that Alfred, _my_ Alfred, was the one whose esophagus was experiencing spasms, burning with a ferocity that made him almost _want_ to expel it, made my stomach twist itself like a rope.

I ran to his side and began pounding on his back (gently mind you), anything to make it stop. Finally he began to breathe again, and as his coughs subsided I wiped the tears that were forced to his cheeks away from his red face. Once the fit was finished he slumped in his seat. I gasped as he fell forward, catching him before his head slammed into the hard floor, but not before I fell with him. I clutched the wheezing body to my chest as we sat on the floor, allowing him to catch his breath while he wrapped his arms around my neck and let his head rest on my shoulder.

I cursed inwardly for leaving my phone on the coffee table, wanting so badly to check the news for any updates.

"The storm hasn't started yet." he said reading my mind. He lifted his head and smiled, but I was still holding him upright and he was still letting me. "That was the wind."

"Fuck wind" I muttered as my heart hit the floor. _It hasn't even begun?_

He chuckled as he began to stand up. I let him lean on me for support while we made our way to the couch. He fell onto it with a thump, as if giving up, and I sighed as I sat beside him. His face was flushed like it had been rubbed raw, and his glasses were sliding off of his nose as if he didn't care to fix them. I righted them, wanting to slip them off and get them out of the way but knowing that he hates not being able to see clearly.

"You really do look sick Love. Are you sure it isn't starting?" I asked while stroking his hair. I haven't babied him like this since… well I suppose I never did.

"I dunno"

I only twitched slightly at his response and sighed. He looked exhausted, and I hoped that he would be able to sleep through the worst of it. I grabbed my phone and asked if he wanted to go up to bed, and after taking his mumble as a yes, hefted him onto my shoulders.

He stumbled as we walked along- or rather I _dragged_ along. I felt his grip around my shoulders tighten after pulling him halfway up the stairs. He moaned and clutched his chest with his free hand, curling his chin downwards and squeezing his eyes shut.

I set him down gently and wrapped both of my arms around his shoulders after he pitched forward, nearly taking a tumble. He leaned into me immediately and started trembling. I was fairly certain it wasn't from the cold.

"Al?"

He looked up at me with teary eyes; the shimmering blue gems were almost too much to take.

"We need to get you into bed. Can you stand up?" I asked him gently.

After receiving a nod on consent I pulled his shaking frame against my own and slowly turned him around. I wasn't sure whose heart was beating faster as I felt his thumping against my ribs. We managed to get to the top of the stairs, taking them one at a time as Alfred gasped and shook.

By the time we made it to the bedroom he was trembling violently, nearly making him impossible to hold on to. It wasn't until I prodded the door open that I knew the storm had hit.

Alfred cried out in pain and clutched my shoulder with his free hand. His knees buckled and he brought both of us down with him. I held his trembling body against mine, my palms firmly planted on either shoulder blade. He clutched his hands into the back of my shirt and pushed his face almost painfully into my neck. I began to rub circles in his back, shushing him gently although he wasn't making any noise. His entire chest heaved forward with every breath. I could hear his slight gasps of pain as he quietly sobbed on my shoulder. After a few moments he fell limp in my arms.

I laid him in my lap and kissed his forehead, stroking the cheek of his taut face with one hand while I reached for my phone with the other. As nations we get news alerts whenever an event occurs in any country of political or personal interest to us. I had one.

"_Hurricane Sandy hits the east US coast, 30 to 70 mph winds and imminent destruction predicted"_


	3. Chapter 3

I startle awake, jumping in my chair by the now 'sick bed'. After my head stopped spinning from the sudden start I look around for its' source. It's still dark out, I notice with relief. I hadn't fallen asleep for long. Alfred was lying next to me with the duvet pulled up to his chin. He looks peaceful until he repeats the pitiful and deep throated moan that must have woken me in the first place. I flinch and feel his forehead. I should have gotten and ice pack or something for this fever but after heaving him into bed I hadn't wanted to leave.

"Stupid Arthur" I berate myself as I rise stiffly and hurry to the bathroom down the hall.

I hear another moan as I flick on the light and begin to rummage through the medicine cabinet. I bite my lip harshly and ignore it. I'll be of no use to him if I can't find his _bloody fucking_ medicine. Was that another moan? I growl under my breath and start tossing various products into the sink until I finally find some fever medicine. I grab it along with a washcloth and a cup of cool water.

"Arthuuur" the strangled cry comes from the bedroom to set a layer of icy dread on my chest.

"I'm coming Alfred!" I shout as I hurry to his side, haphazardly disposing of my findings on the nightstand.

Alfred has curled in on himself with the blankets twisted around his legs as he clutches his midsection. He chokes and whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut so hard it must have hurt.

"Oh Al, my poor baby." I say through badly suppressed tears. I stroke his hair and lay my hand on top of one of his clutched ones.

He opens his eyes; fear dancing in their teary depths. He lets out a sob and shuts them again. His hand turns to grasp mine, and although I can feel my knuckles rolling against each other as he squeezes, I do my best to hold his back.

"You don't need to be frightened Alfred." I say in a surprisingly soothing voice, "It's alright. Everything is going to be alright."

That last part, of course, was a lie; but that's beside the point. He shudders and begins to relax; the brief spasm over. Once he seems to have fallen into a restless sleep I slip my hand out of his and slowly push his shoulders back into the covers so that he is lying on his back.

I wet the cloth and gently lay it on his smoldering forehead before turning on the news.

I had made myself comfortable sitting on the bed as the news played in the background. Alfred had, subconsciously or not, curled into my side so that his head rested in my lap. He had remained incoherent for the past hour, the strained look on his face never subsiding. With good cause too, I muttered, based on the rambles on every news station about snowstorms in the south and devastating tides in the north.

The very subject of my toils chose this moment to speak up, startling me out of my revere.

"Could you turn that off." He said weakly. His voice sounded quiet and strained, as if it hurt to speak. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if it did.

"Oh yes, sorry love." I turned the offending television off, "do you have a headache?"

"No…well yes, but that's not it." He said, shifting as if to sit up, but falling back into the pillows from exhaustion.

I knew exactly what he meant. He can feel everything that is happening with this cursed hurricane, there was no need to listen to it as well. One outlet was plenty.

I helped him sit up and turned to face him; "are you feeling any better than before?"

"No…"

"Well at least you're finally being honest."

He gave a pitiful smile and started to shiver. I gently pulled the duvet up so that it rested on his shoulders.

"I have some fever medicine for you."

"…won't help." He mutters, looking down at the bedspread.

I sigh; "It might. I know this isn't a normal sickness but you have to try."

He looks up at me and quickly looks back down.

I, having none of it, climbed off of the bed and took two little pills out of their foil homes.

"I won't hurt either Al."

I grabbed the water off of the nightstand and held the pills out to him. He detangled his arm from the covers and, after a few attempts, took the pills with shaking hands. He set them on his tongue and reached for the glass. It looked like he could barely hold his hand up.

I gently pushed his hand back into his lap and held the glass up to his lips. He didn't look up as he gently sipped the water, downing the pills and then half of the glass before he turned away.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of Alfred." I said as I moved his hair out of his eyes.

"These things just happen sometimes."

He smiled again just as weakly and leaned into my shoulder. I sighed and moved so that I was sitting in his lap so he could wrap his unusually weak arms around me and lean into my back. He put his face on my neck; I kissed his forehead in response.

"Do you want to watch a movie?"

He nodded mutely and I picked up the remote, looking for what was "on demand" or whatever you call it.

"How does superman sound?"

"…fine"

Good lord, I have never seen the boy so quiet. I sighed and held his hand in mine, doing my best to ignore the subtle trembling.


	4. Chapter 4

This time I managed to get into a comfortable sleeping position before I passed out, so when I woke to a blaring alarm clock I was completely cramp free. Now to kill whatever is making that noise. I heard Alfred groan next to me.

"_shit_!" He really didn't need to be woken up this early. I managed to jam the red snooze button on my phone. The fact that I fell off of the bed shot that whole "no pains this morning" thing to hell, though.

I had completely forgotten to turn off my alarm for 5:30 Monday (today) through Friday. I turned my alarm off, and set the ringer to vibrate for good measure.

"Iggy?" Alfred rasped from barely opened eyes.

"Yes love?"

"Whysi so bright?" he mumbled.

I looked around, and realized it actually wasn't very bright at all. A quick peek out of the window verified the storm clouds looming above, like a mass of grey mold.

I turned the lamp on the nightstand off and went to sit on the edge of the bed; "Just close your eyes. You need your sleep."

He nodded tiredly and did as he was told. I stroked his cheek; he was still hot. I also noticed that his arms were wrapped around his midsection. I hoped he wouldn't vomit again.

I placed a new cool cloth on his head and slipped the thermometer into his mouth. 39 C. That's about 103 F. I bit my lip and slowly made my way downstairs. I knew he wasn't human, so a fever probably wouldn't kill him, but that didn't mean there was no cause to worry.

I realized how hungry I was when I reached the kitchen, and decided a quick meal could do no harm. I made myself something (I was careful not to set anything on fire) and turned on the news. 10 feet of snow in the south, torrential downpour in the north, and ripping winds all throughout. Well, fuck.

I grabbed some bread and went upstairs, fully intending to get some food into him. Neither of us had eaten in two days, and I hoped he was as hungry as I had been.

Alfred was leaning heavily on the side of the bed, standing-or attempting to- on shaky legs. I ran over and grabbed his shoulders before he fell.

"Alfred what on earth are you doing out of bed?"

He looked up at me blankly; "I need to go… to… Louisiana" he finished between pants.

I pushed him back down into a sitting position; "What do you need in Louisiana?" I asked softly. I had a feeling his fever was doing the talking right now.

He furrowed his brow as if trying to remember; "It's cold."

"Why don't you get under the covers then?" I asked, trying to push him onto his back.

"No, Louisiana is cold." With that he began to shiver, and tightly wrapped his arms around his chest.

"I know, there's a lot of snow down there right now. There's nothing you can do, Al."

"I need to help."

"You can help them by lying back down and getting better." I finally managed to get him to do just that.

"Artie?"

"Yes love?"

"Where am I?"

I sighed and pulled the covers over his trembling body. He must really be out of it. I sat beside him and cupped his cheek in my palm.

"You're in New York."

He started to mumble; "I need to go…. To-"

I cut him off with light chuckle. Is it wrong to find him extremely adorable like this? I shushed him and stroked his jaw.

"You don't need to go anywhere, Love. Just get some rest." I cooed. I don't think I've ever done _that_ before.

Alfred nodded and closed his eyes. I collected the damp cloth from where he had knocked it onto the floor and wet it again before putting it back on his forehead. I grabbed a book from the nightstand and sat next to him, deciding that I definitely did _not_ want him wandering around half delirious from fever.

I checked Alfred's temperature every 30 minutes, and frowned each time at the lack of change. He woke up again around noon, seeming much more coherent. I thought it was the perfect opportunity to get him to eat, but he seemed to disagree.

He was sitting up in bed, thanks to me, with his arms crossed over his chest firmly.

"Alfred F. Jones you are going to eat a piece of bread right now." I growled from my spot by the nightstand. I know I shouldn't get frustrated with a sick person, but he wasn't even trying.

"I can't." His was avoiding looking at my glare.

I scoffed; "You can _try_." He shook his head. "How do you know that if you haven't yet?" He coughed into his hand and turned his head so he was facing the opposite wall. I grabbed his chin and turned him to face me. Alfred did look awful. He had circles under his eyes and he didn't even have the strength to lift his hand for very long- how he got out of bed earlier was beyond me. He was also losing weight rapidly. Despite having been eating regularly only a few days ago his cheeks were already sunken, and his shirt hung loosely on his frame. I knew from personal experience that it was from the "despair of the people" or some nonsense. In my opinion, it is all the more reason to eat something; anything would do.

"Please?"

"…"

He stared at his lap and shook his head again, his movement inhibited by my grip on his jaw. I let go and sighed deeply; "you're only going to make yourself weaker."

He flinched at this. Alright, Arthur, bad word choice there. Calling a country weak was like a slap in the face. Alfred began to curl in on himself, pulling his knees up and clutching his stomach tightly.

I was startled; "Oh Al I didn't mean it that way." I said, trying to pull his knees back down before he could hide away.

It was then that I noticed how green he looked. I cursed and spun around, throwing the rejected bread on the nightstand and searching for a trash bin. Alfred started moaning as I retrieved one and set it beside him on the bed.

I moved his bangs out of his face; "Alfred, love are you going to be sick?"

He started breathing heavily as his eyes watered, and still he shook his head. I told him it was alright, that it wasn't shameful to give in if it made him feel better, but for a reason beyond me he chose to sit through the nausea instead.

Once he returned to a (more) normal color I laid him down and pulled the covers over his shoulders. He was completely limp, exhausted by the ordeal. I smiled sadly as him as I stroked his cheek. He didn't say anything, and just as I thought he had fallen asleep I heard a quiet voice.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked weakly.

"Of course not, Love. You haven't done anything wrong." I waited for a response, but he just closed his eyes.

"Get some sleep. I'll be here when you wake up." He relaxed visibly as I ran my hand over his arm.

"You'll feel better when you wake up." I reassured us.


	5. Chapter 5

I winced as my knees dug into the hard tile, but honestly, I had no right to complain. Alfred retched again, the force of it pushing his chest up against the toilet seat. I pulled his shoulders back gently, determined that the least I could do was keep him from falling in.

How we got here exactly wasn't all that hectic. Alfred had to go to the bathroom and I, the ever faithful husband, was helping him get there. We hardly got into the room before the hand that I hadn't seen clutching his stomach went shakily to his mouth, and he was collapsed as you see here, merciless to the dry heaves.

There wasn't anything in his stomach; just a sort of comically green acid that I supposed was all of the nutrients he had left. Everything his body had to run on until he could eat- which wasn't looking hopeful- was quite literally going down the drain.

I grabbed his trembling shoulders, now that his heaves were producing nothing at all, and lowered him into my lap so that he was sitting sideways between my crossed legs. I held a cool rag to his mouth as he continued to lurch forward between every breath.

He coughed, he sobbed, he whimpered, I even heard a few desperate calls of my name, but it didn't stop. I held him there, doing my best to keep him upright, to whisper soothing things, to let him know someone was _there_. For an hour we continued like this until finally, mercifully, the heaves became more of a cough, then a sputter, than a quiet wheeze.

I threw the soiled cloth into the garbage bin beside the toilet and stroked his cheek. My eyes were practically falling out of my head with the weight of the tears I hadn't dared to show him. He was unconscious, of course. That would make the travel back to bed particularly challenging.

I let a few tears roll down my cheeks, and dared a hoarse sob as I wrapped both arms around his shoulders and pressed him close to me. I hated that I always got like this. Whenever something was too emotional, or stressful, or frustrating, I cried. I mostly kept this to myself, mind you, but I had been- after 60 some years of my most steady relationship ever- begrudgingly forced to let Alfred in. He, of course, always comforted me in just the right way. Well, I suppose that's not really an option right now. Not that he wouldn't try, if he was coherent that is, but I'd rather hike through hell than ask that of him.

It was then that I heard a loud roaring sound downstairs. I wiped my tears quickly and listened. I realized that it was the wind rushing into the house from someone _opening the door_ after I heard it slam. I began to panic; had I locked it? Yes I had. Were we expecting visitors? Certainly not. Was it someone seeking shelter? We were much too far inland for someone to be desperate to break into a house.

I heard boots thudding up stairs, and a quiet voice saying something. There was running then. I held Alfred's head protectively to my chest and sucked in a shaking breath as the bathroom door slammed open.

Standing there, sopping wet and red in the face, was Canada- who I had _certainly_ remembered was coming to help me take care of Alfred. Who the hell was I kidding, that boy slipped my mind on an ordinary day. Come to think of it, I didn't even know the day of the week anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

"Uh… sorry, I'll go dry off." Canada squeaked before dashing- or rather sloshing- away.

I sighed when he walked out. The adrenalin had effectively brought me back to my senses. I released Alfred's head to let it rest gently against my shoulder again. I looked into his face and smiled at how completely relaxed he was. I hoped that he was thinking of the happier- and significantly less waterlogged- places in his country when he dreamed. I blushed slightly when I remembered something he had once said to me over a morning cup of coffee. _Ya know Artie, I really only remember it when I dream about you._

"Can I uh... I mean…" Canada fidgeted from the doorway.

I realized I had been stroking Alfred's face with a look somewhat akin to wonderment.

"Ah," I furrowed my brow. "Could you help me carry him back to bed?" I finally managed through my blush.

Matthew nodded. He came over and grabbed Alfred's legs firmly. I moved out from under him so I could hold Al beneath his arms. His head lolled against my chest as we walked, and I found that I had to try _very_ hard not to drop him. Matthew, on the other hand, looked like he could do this all day. I scoffed and shook my head.

Once Alfred was safely deposited onto the bed I went to pull the blankets over him. I was blocked by a pair of slim shoulders. I glared at his back as Matthew tucked Alfred in. Feeling a sudden sense of possession consume me, I tried hard to will it down. Canada was Alfred's little brother. He would only be here for a few days anyway.

"I'll go make us some tea," I clipped before walking downstairs.

What the hell was wrong with me? I didn't act like this when anyone flirted with him, well, except for Mexico, but he practically undressed himself for Alfred. And France, but that's because he's a worthless whiney mongrel. And maybe Belarus, but everyone knows that she's absolutely mad! Alright, maybe I get jealous, but Matthew wasn't even flirting!

I kept muttering to myself while I tried to remember, ever the gentleman that I was, what kind of tea Canada liked. Did he even like tea?

I was pouring my second cup when the Canadian came down the stairs, almost scaring me half to death.

"Ah thank you" he said, smiling appreciatively when I poured his tea.

He took a sip from the glass and smiled slightly at me. I looked away.

"Did you have a good flight?"

"Yes, thank you."

I turned to face him, but was startled by his unnerving glare. I put a hand to my chest. That was certainly a change in atmosphere. Did _Canada_ just _glare_ at me? Maybe I wasn't the only unpleasant one.

"Has he been like this the whole time?"

"Umm… sick?" I asked dumbly.

His only response was a pointed look.

"Er… I mean he's been in bed for six days, and he had a cough before that." I said, rather proud of my exact answer. Matthew, on the other hand, just stared.

"Have you used a cool compress?"

"No but-"

"Has he eaten?"

"No be-"

"Have you bathed him?"

I blushed; "I mean-"

"Have you?" I was met with a ferocious glare.

"No."

I hung my head. I had half a mind to be angry, but the embarrassment of that last question coupled with my knowledge that Matthew was making a good point really took the steam out of me.

Instead of reprimanding me he shook his head and opened the freezer. I bit my lip and watched him. Did Matthew think I was a horrible husband? Was I? Probably. Now that I think on it, Canada has never really approved of my relationship with Alfred. He's never been very verbal about it, but his glares were one thing I wouldn't forget.

He slammed the door shut, reusable ice pack in hand, and made his way up the stairs. I followed behind him quickly, determined to do better now. _I_ was going to make Alfred feel better, god dammit. There is no motivation like a competitive atmosphere.

Canada went straight to America's bedside and laid the pack on his creased forehead. It seemed his sweet dreams didn't last. When Matthew sat down in the chair that I had been living in for the past week, I had no choice but to crawl onto the bed and sit beside Alfred, holding the hand that Canada had not already taken possession of. This little competition was probably undignified, and certainly childish, but I didn't care. This wasn't about my rivalry with his little brother. It was about Alfred.

I traced the creases in Al's palm as I contemplated the position we were in. I was extremely grateful to Matthew for being one of the very few people who genuinely cared for Alfred. We had that much in common, even if he didn't care for me. Granted, I would rather cut off my hand than admit that to the conniving little twit.

Alfred began to stir a little in his sleep. I reached a hand out, but was beat to it when said twit began stroking his brother's hair and whispering- or maybe speaking, it was hard to tell with him- sweet things.

I resigned myself to rubbing the back of America's hand with my thumb instead.

I had settled down to lie beside Alfred after Matthew had been situated in the guest room. I gingerly removed the ice pack, the royal blue liquid sloshing around as I set it on the night stand. I thought about getting him another, but I knew that too much ice would just numb his forehead and give him a migraine.

I lay on my husband's shoulder and looked up at his face in the darkness. He still looked like he was in pain. I closed my eyes, genuinely missing the strong arm that would normally wrap around me. I settled for grabbing the hand on his opposite side.

I fell asleep like that, at least, until Alfred started screaming. It was the sort of high pitch scream that started quiet and grew in volume until it was deafening.

I sat up immediately and looked him over quickly, grateful that he wasn't bleeding anywhere. But, oh, was he hurting. His back arched as he writhed in pain, his fingers bent, gripping the sheets with white knuckles. He panted furiously between shrieks, not ever getting enough air before another spasm overtook him.

I was too shocked to cry; I was too _panicked_ to cry. I heard Matthew, though.

"What do we do?" He was certainly crying.

I didn't know what to do, but maybe if I looked like I did I would be able to think.

"Hold him down!" I jumped off of the bed just as Canada moved to straddle Alfred, holding his convulsing arms.

The screaming never stopped. I held his head to my chest, not for the first time, and stroked his face. I kissed his forehead and whispered lovingly about sunny hills and quiet winters. I didn't know what I was doing, but I knew my husband. I knew how to calm him down.

Sure enough, his screams quieted to gut churning moans. His body fell limply onto the bed, but I kept holding his head just above the pillow. It wasn't so much that he was uncomfortable, but this way he could _feel_ me. I wanted Alfred to know that he wasn't alone.

He fainted, or maybe he fell asleep, within seconds. Matthew seemed to recover quickly, and too soon I found myself being passively squeezed to the side as he climbed off of the bed. I let go of Alfred's head before it was turned at an odd angle, and stood back out of instinct so the Canadian could get down.

"Go get some water," his voice was shaky, and I wasn't too keen on taking orders, but I did so anyway. I was too dazed to object without stuttering mindlessly.

As I slowly filled the glass I heard an all too familiar moan. I was both relieved and concerned that Alfred had woken up so quickly.

When I strode into the room I found that I was effectively blocked from America's side. Matthew was sitting so his back was facing me as he leaned over his elder;_ no doubt being as much of a comfort as he can be_ I told myself as I set the glass on the nightstand. I stood awkwardly to the side, hoping beyond all hopes that my brother in law would just _move_.

When Alfred moaned again he curled on his side so I could see his pained expression. I walked forward, fully intending to shove Canada off of the bed myself if I had to. As it turns out, there was no need.

"Arthur" my love sobbed, reaching out to me; "_Arthur_"

I didn't pay any mind to Matthew as he moved back, although he had a little help from me shouldering past him. I pulled Alfred's head onto my crossed legs, sitting so that my back was against the back board of the bed. I stroked my husband's hair, removing it from where it was plastered on his sweat-soaked forehead.

He continued to call my name while he cried. I did my best, whispering soothing words of love and whipping his constant tears away. He clutched my ankle with one hand. I held the other, letting him squeeze my palm painfully.

I longed to kill whatever hurt my one true love, but alas, weather is a force even black magic cannot smite. I would just have to think of something else; something better. I started to tell him stories again, recounting happy moments in our past.

"Remember the day you came back from that trip to the Middle East?" I smiled even though the only response I had received was a shuddered breath and a hiccup; "Of course you do, you had planned it so well. You would go be with your people, talk to the officers, understand the war completely, and come home. Your plan wasn't what had actually happened, of course. That's just the way we are, isn't it?" I paused to bend down and kiss his forehead. "Somebody had made a terrible mistake," I continued, "The rumor had spread somehow that you were dead. I, the pessimist that I am, had believed it. I wouldn't have taken their words seriously if it hadn't of been so many people with the same story. They said you died carrying another man away from a bombing. It seems likely, doesn't it? You, of all people, would be sure to die as a hero. My prime minister had even said you may be dead. I wasn't going to get an official letter, of course, because that would require you to be enlisted in the air force, which would require you to be human." I started rubbing large circles into his back as his breathing started to steady. "I had cried for days. I stopped eating, I wouldn't leave the house, and I wore nothing but one of your oldest T-shirts around. When I was told that you would be coming home, and that I should meet you at that little private airport in Colorado because it was near the air base, I had convinced myself that you would be arriving in a coffin. My heart just stopped when you stepped out of that plane, tired but smiling. I had been holding something, roses, I think, to lie on your dead body. I dropped them and ran to you, leaping into your arms. You had held me so tightly. I ruined your shirt, too. You kept asking me what was wrong, trying to pull me away so you could look at me, but I wouldn't let you. I remember I left bruises on your shoulder; I had been clutching you so tightly. When I finally did stop crying, I slapped you. Then I kissed you. Poor boy," I chuckled, letting my spirit soar when he smiled weakly, "people must have been staring, too. It took about a week of reunion sex to finally convince me that you were home safe. I remember how you had noticed how thin I was. You forced me to eat all sorts of American-sized meals. You didn't even laugh when I put your T-shirt on out of habit. You had told me to take it off, wrapping your arms around me and saying I didn't need it anymore. Needless to say, you are now banned by me from all war zones, and I will never believe gossip again." I finished my story with a fond tweak of his nose. His smile was faint, but present as he drifted into a painless sleep.

The story may not have been a happy little tale about sunshine and roses, but it had been full of raw emotion. I know that that's what Alfred liked. He didn't need any fancy words of embellishment, or moral lessons. My husband, more than anything, liked to feel alive.

That, making our choices in literature polar opposites, was another reason why we 'worked'. I liked to think that we complimented each other well.

Matthew had disappeared from the room, but I barely noticed as I slid in bed beside Alfred, nuzzling my nose into his chest. His arms wrapped around me, and I knew that everything would be alright, because we could make it through anything.


	7. Chapter 7

When I awoke it was late in the day. The sun was desperately peeking past the heavy clouds, making faint patterns through the curtains. I had my nose pressed into Alfred's chest, and could verify immediately that he really needed to bathe. Still, I snuggled closer into his soft cotton shirt, pulling us together so that the entire surface of my body was touching his.

I heard noises coming from downstairs; the sound of running water, the beep of the microwave, the shuffling of feet. I hoped Matthew was making food. Alfred desperately needed to eat, if the slightly too predominant ribs poking at my chest were any indication.

I turned my head to the side when he began to mumble in his sleep. I liked the sensation of his chest vibrating, the way that his arm would tighten just slightly- he didn't have much strength- every so often when he spoke.

I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and gave myself one more long moment of peace before rolling out from under Alfred. I landed on the floor and turned back, smiling fondly when he curled up, like he was searching for the lost presence.

"C'm back here 's cold" he murmured. His voice was raspy, unsurprisingly, but I was still delighted to hear it.

"I'm sorry darling; I didn't realize you were awake." I said, approaching him and pulling the covers over his shoulders.

He opened his eyes, just enough to squint at me, as I continued to meticulously tuck him in. He looked as if he was going to say something, but ended up coughing into the blankets instead. I brought my eyebrows together sympathetically and rubbed his back. I continued to mother him, forbidding him from speaking with gentle shushing noises, until Canada walked in.

His eyes widened when he saw that Alfred was awake. I moved to the side (just a little) so he could talk to his brother.

"I thought you were here-" the end of America's sentence was cut off with a deep cough.

"I came as soon as I could, eh." I smirked at his trademark expression.

Alfred just nodded this time, looking completely exhausted. I stopped him as his eyes began to flutter, squeezing past Matthew and putting a hand on his shoulder; "You need to stay awake, love"

America slowly opened his eyes, setting his tired gaze on me.

"You have to drink something before you become dehydrated, on top of everything else."

I smiled gently at his groan. He closed his eyes tight and mumbled about 'stupid motherly instincts' or some nonsense. I hefted him into a sitting position while he clutched at his stomach. His face twisted in pain. Once Alfred was situated I kissed his forehead. He looked at me tiredly after his stomach settled and rested his face in my palm when I started to stroke his cheek.

"You really have no energy at all, dear."

He chucked breathlessly. Matthew came up behind me with a glass of water. He could be helpful when necessary, I suppose. I pressed the cup to Alfred's lips, trying not to tilt the cup too quickly and choke him. He took little sips, his head still supported by my hand. Eventually he stopped drinking and looked at me exasperatedly.

"I suppose that's enough for now," I relented, frowning at the almost full cup.

Matthew took the glass again while I eased Al back into bed, careful to set his head down gently. He fell asleep quickly, but not without coughing into the sheets a few times first.

"So he has a pretty bad cough then." Canada said, starting at his brother as if he contained all of the answers to the world's mysteries.

"Yes, it just won't quite bugger off." I sighed, sitting next to Alfred gingerly.

Canada just nodded and went back downstairs, taking the full glass with him. I turned back to Alfred and started running my fingers through his greasy hair. I was glad that Matthew wasn't the type to hover.

While I sat there I reflected on just how melancholy I was being. I wasn't that I was always like this, cooing and playing mother goose, but Alfred was just so helpless and… cute. I'm sure that he found it slightly more than infuriating, but he couldn't very well complain right now, so all was well. I smirked at that notion and wandered downstairs to eat a late breakfast and avoid my brother in law.

* * *

I heard talking from upstairs, but decided to leave Matthew and Alfred alone for a while. They hadn't gotten a chance to talk yet, and even a bossy bloke like that Canadian deserved _some_ respect. I sank back into the couch further, actually enjoying my first cup of tea in days. It was nice, I would admit, to have someone else help me take care of Alfred.

Speaking of whom, I should probably get him into the bath while he was awake. I washed out my cup and followed the sound of –two,I am happy to report- voices. Alfred was sitting up in bed, no doubt thanks to Matthew, who was talking to him quietly. It seemed that, as per usual, he was the only one talking quietly.

"Come on Mattie! Nobody in North America likes buying oil from the Middle East; the Keystone pipeline would make us energy independent." Alfred ranted from the sick bed.

"But it would hurt the environment."

"Not as much as the war is hurting the environment in Israel."

His voice strained at the end of the sentence, which soon became a coughing fit. I walked around Matthew and rubbed Alfred's back until he stopped. He leaned on the headboard and looked up at me with a grin; "I see you managed to make it an entire day without killing Mattie."

"Cheeky."

"Wa- What?" Said survivor stuttered, looking from me to his brother questioningly.

I sighed and rubbed at my forehead in expiration, mostly to hide my grin. Alfred was flashing his usual toothy smile, unashamed as usual.

"Well, since you're feeling better I do believe that you need to take a bath," I said to Alfred's pouting face. "Come on now, poppet. Don't you think it'll make you feel better?"

He sighed, "Yeah I guess. Ya' know what they say; mother knows best."

Sick or not, that earned him an assertive smack on the head.

* * *

Matthew had gone to get the bath prepared, leaving me with the task of getting Alfred there. He had managed to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, but not without a fair amount of exertion.

"I can do this."

"No you can't."

"Couse I can."

"No, Alfred, you can't."

He sighed and slouched his shoulders, looking up at me with wide, sad eyes.

"Oh, darling," I said, sitting next to him so he could lean on me; "You have been taking this hurricane much better than any other country could."

"I don't want to be like other countries, Iggy."

"Don't call me that." He turned to be with an aggravated expression. I smiled and righted his crooked glasses. "Come now, Alfred. You _aren't_ like the other countries," I held up a finger before he could interrupt; "Don't you think you would get along better with them if you were?"

Alfred laughed. It was short, and a little weak, but it was a genuine laugh.

"The bath is ready, eh."

I looked up at Canada as he walked in and nodded to show I had heard him. He retreated downstairs quietly.

"I need you to help me walk, Iggy."

"Don't be a git, Al. I was going to help you whether you liked it or not."

He gave me his best kicked puppy expression. I leaned in to kiss his forehead and loop my arm around his waist. As it turned out, Alfred needed a lot of help getting to the bathroom. I practically carried him, which was frighteningly easy. I could tell it hurt. He would never admit that, though, so he pushed through it.

When we made our way into the room I sat him down on the toilet seat. I gave him a concerned look as he hunched forward, panting. He waved me away, so I made sure the water was still warm while he caught his breath. He managed to get his clothes off, only needing me to help him stand when he pulled his pants and underwear from his hips. We were far past the point of modesty in our relationship. What did catch my eye, though, was how gaunt he looked. It wasn't the he-was-in-a-German-death-camp king of gaunt; he was just way too damn thin.

Alfred, now successfully de-clothed, took my hands and let me guide him into the tub. Standing upright made his legs shake, I noticed, as he laid his head against the wall exhaustedly.

"Are you hungry at all?" I asked as I started to wash his body. He winced as he lifted his head to look at me; "Not really" he mumbled before closing his eyes again.

I sighed and continued bathing him. He didn't react to me at all, not even when I started washing around his neck or his privates. It wouldn't take a genius to realize he had fallen asleep. What worried me was just how much Alfred had been sleeping lately. I suppose it's normal enough for a sick human, but what did it mean for a country?

"Stop"

"What?" I asked looking down at my soap covered hands currently washing his leg to see what I could possibly be doing wrong.

"Worrying" I raised an eyebrow.

"I know that face, babe." He smiled at me knowingly. "You're over thinking things again."

I huffed and started washing his leg more vigorously to hide my embarrassment. "So what if I am?"

"You need to relax. I can't let one hurricane get me down."

I smiled despite myself; "What makes you so sure?" I asked, moving our faces closer together. "I'm your hero, duh." He smirked. I closed the distance and kissed him sweetly. "There's no need to be a smartass, Al." I said, wiping at his cheeks with the soap. "I have to keep up with you somehow, sweetheart." He countered innocently.

I couldn't help but smile as I got out the shampoo.


	8. Chapter 8

"Yessir. I understand sir. Thank you sir. Yessir." Alfred rolled his eyes at me and mouthed _oh my god_. I snickered, putting my hand over my mouth to prevent any noise from escaping. The worst of the hurricane was finally over. All that was left now was rebuilding, which Alfred is more than capable of.

He hung up the phone, glad that a long conversation about the state of things with his boss was over with. Alfred groaned and leaned back into the pillows. The sweet smell of pancakes wafted up the stairs and I smiled. All I had to do now was fatten him up and he would be as good as new.

"What are you staring at?" My grin became coy as I crawled over the bed to where Alfred sat. He raised his eyebrows, smiling through his curiosity.

I slid my hands underneath his shirt, running my fingers up and down his painfully predominant rib cage. I moved so that I was straddling him and spoke deviously; "I'm going to stuff you just like Hansel and Grettle"

He pulled a face. "Gross. Then you'll have to eat me, Iggs."

I quirked my brow and kissed him chastely, "I know."

Alfred laughed heartily for the first time in weeks. "You're so weird." I myself fell into a fit of giggles at my own ridiculousness and relief that finally things were back to normal.

I moved so that I was sitting sideways in his lap, we did have a house guest after all, and wrapped my arms around his neck. Al obligingly held me around my waist. We sat like that for a while, me nuzzling his chest while he nuzzled my hair.

Alfred was never known for peace and quiet, though, so when one of his hands inevitably moved just a little bit lower to cup one of my butt cheeks I was not surprised at all. So not surprised, in fact, that I most certainly did not just squeak.

I curled upwards and away from his hand, pulling myself consequently to his chest. "A-Al!" I swatted at his playful hand futilely while he chuckled. I had practically crawled up his torso now, the perusing hand still not giving up. "Matthew is just downstairs!"

He turned his head to look at me with a terribly suggestive grin, finally catching his prey and holding on tight; "I know."

When Matthew threw the door open half an hour later he carried a tray laden with at least ten good sized pancakes. No wonder it took him so long. I got up from the bed to retrieve the food. Canada left quickly, saying that he was off to eat his own meal.

When I turned back around I couldn't help but smile. Alfred almost looked like a dog in a meat shop. I set the food onto the table and shoved him over to make room for myself, picking up the heavy and almost uncomfortably warm tray and setting it on our laps.

There were two forks, but no extra plates. While I tried to tackle the problem of how to eat, Alfred solved it. Sort of. He folded two pancakes in half like a taco and immediately scarfed them down. I smacked him upside the head while he grinned back sheepishly through a full mouth.

"You are an absolute mess!" I shouted, indicating his syrup-coated fingers, "No to mention you'll make yourself sick, eating so much all at once." The last part was made much less menacing when I licked my thumb and started to wipe sticky goo from the corner of his mouth.

Alfred only laughed at me, "Come on, babe. What did you expect?"

I smiled once I finished cleaning his face and pressed a fork into his palm in response. The rest of the meal went much more respectably, despite the several sword-fights-with-forks. I was happy to see the plate empty when we were finished, knowing that Al ate at least a few more pancakes than I did.

FIN


End file.
